'Do you think you have no chance of being the first Saint Hector in the calendar?' asked Cucurullo pleasantly. 'Why not? You have a good heart, sir. I see it in your face, if you will pardon me for saying so. Gentlemen'—he smilingly appealed to the other men—'has not Sergeant Hector a good heart?'
'A heart of gold!' cried one of the soldiers.
'A heart as big as a pumpkin!' another chimed in.
'There is not another like him in all the Pope's army!'
'And God bless him!'
The sergeant stood back, pretending to put on a terrible frown, and cutting the air in carte and tierce with his handsome tasselled stick.
'You ruffians!' he roared. 'You know well enough that I would beat you all black and blue if you did not praise me seventeen times a day, four times for each watch and once more for good luck! Eh?' He glared ferociously about him, and his stick flew round in his hand like lightning, through a whole series of cuts, feints, and round parries. 'Have I trained my men well or not?' he asked, desisting at last, and turning to Cucurullo.
'You have trained them to tell the truth about you, sir, I have no doubt,' answered the hunchback.
'And we will make a bad day of it for any man who says a word against him,' said the biggest of the halberdiers with a grin.